


In Loco Parentis

by amy_vic



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Daddy Kink, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 04:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15307947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amy_vic/pseuds/amy_vic
Summary: Nate doesn't have a daddy kink, but apparently his brain thinks he does.





	In Loco Parentis

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'embarassing situations' square on my GK bingo card. Full disclosure: I did no hard research into the psychology of this, so anything Ray says is just...me pulling this out of my own brain and typing it up. Ditto the PTSD; my own experience with anti-depressants is minimal, and I tried to keep this as vague and non-triggery as possible.

And then, suddenly: 

"God, fuck, _daddy_ , _please_."

They both freeze in place, Ray's hand wrapped firmly around Nate's cock, opposite arm pining Nate's upper body to the bed, thighs bracketing Nate's hips. Nate inhales sharply as he closes his mouth, and he shuts his eyes for a moment, before he starts trying to twist out of Ray's hold.

"Let me, just--christ, let me up," Nate says, and he sounds so small and broken, somehow, that Ray ignores the fact that he's about ten seconds from coming all over Nate and backs off. Nate sits on the edge of the bed farthest from Ray, hands on his thighs, head bent low enough that Ray can clearly see every knob of his spine.

"Okay," Ray says slowly, sliding off the opposite side of the bed. Nate has pulled the sheet around his hips and over his lap, so Ray finds his boxers from the pile on the floor and puts them on before moving to sit on the bed, facing Nate's side. "So; that happened."

"Yeah," Nate says quietly. Ray's pretty sure that the beet red flush on his ears and the back of his neck have nothing to do with his hard-on. "I...I really have no explanation for that. It's not a kink of mine, I'd have mentioned if it was." 

Ray nods. Neither of them are shy about discussing sex; Ray was pouring a bowl of cereal last week when Nate rounded the corner into the kitchen, asking, "Hey, if you're not too tired or busy after classes tonight, wanna come with me and go shopping for a flogger, and maybe a new cane? The one we've got now snapped last night while I was cleaning it." (The bowl didn't break when he dropped it, but there's definitely still a Mini Wheat or two down beside the fridge that neither the broom nor vacuum can get at.) 

"It actually makes total sense, though, you know. From a psychological standpoint," Ray says after a few more moments of silence. Nate looks up at him, bewildered but slightly amused (later, Ray will realize that it's a fond look that means, "of _course_ , my boyfriend starts expounding on psychology in bed"), so Ray gestures around them and continues. "I mean, I get it. It's not so much about wanting to fuck your father or kill your father or any of that Freudian shit--Freud was an idiot anyways, not to mention that he was most likely on some capital D Drugs--it's about needing to give up your power in exchange for security and safety."

Nate blinks. He's used to it by now, Ray's penchant for saying wild things that end up with perfectly rational explanations, but this is still one of the weirder starts to the lecture. "...Okay?"

"Nate, you were a 25-year-old Ivy League dicksuck," Ray waves a hand at Nate when he opens his mouth in token protest, and continues, "who got thrown into the middle of a fucking war by being told, "Here's 22 kids; go to this foreign fuckin' country with absolutely no fucking supplies and half as many batteries for your NVG's, kill a bunch of bad guys, and if you do a very good job and bring all 22 kids home in one piece, maybe you'll get extra allowance and a pretty pin for your shirt. I mean, your actual, literal brain was barely fully formed at that point, and you were expected to keep us not only alive, but relatively sane and in control of our shit. So, yeah, you needing to decompress and call someone daddy makes complete sense." 

"We've been back nearly 6 years, Ray; why the hell would this be the first time I've--" Nate gestures vaguely, to either Ray or himself or their bed, Ray's not certain--"said that before?"

"Brains are weird," Ray says with a shrug. "I once called my teacher Mom on the last day of school before summer vacation; it happens." 

As few sentences as it is, this is one of the deepest and most profound discussions they'll have about any part of their time in Iraq. They talk about it rarely, but their anger and fears and doubts are usually always covered by little jokes or shorthand sarcasm. They both know that they're extraordinarily lucky to be this many years out from both Iraq and the Corps itself without any severe PTSD, and the so-called "common reactions" they do have, they're...working on, by way of truly excellent therapists, and like-clockwork refills of meds. (The dosages have lowered considerably since they first started taking them, but they've both seen what happens when someone goes cold turkey with heavy meds; they'll take their time weaning off them, thank you very much.) They both keep earplugs and sunglasses at hand when they leave the house just in case, and Fourth of July weekend is spent hiking up in the mountains, where their loudest, brightest piece of gear is a Bic lighter and a pocket-sized stove. 

"So what about you?" Nate says. "Shouldn't you be calling people daddy even more, since you were 22 and thrown into a hot zone? To say nothing of the fact that you were driving the lead victor for our entire platoon? I mean, if you'd been hit and lost control, we'd probably all be really fucking dead right now." 

Ray shakes his head. "Dude, I grew up with an absentee father in rural Missouri, and almost before I could legally drink, the Corps threw me in a Humvee where Brad 'Viking Warrior God' rode shotgun, with you, Rudy Reyes, and Godfather himself on our six; my need of father figures is fairly well-sated at this point."

"Rudy? Huh. So is that why you took him out at the knees the day Scribe left? You were, what, trying to prove that you were a big boy?" Nate smiles a little. He's pretty sure that hadn't been Ray's intent, but from everything he'd seen from his vantage across the field (and from everything Brad had quietly mentioned later), a case could be made.

"That? Shit, no, that was an acute attack of stupidity mixed with lingering ephedra withdrawl and massive amounts of sleep deprivation," Ray says. He doesn't tell Nate that he'd gone to Rudy later and apologized, and they'd ended up bitching for the better part of an hour over canteen cups of Ranger fudge. "Besides, Rudy's hot, but he's not really my type."

Nate shifts around so he's facing Ray. He gets his hands around Ray's hips, thumbs sliding under the waistband of his boxers, as he says, "So, who is your type, then, hmm?" 

Ray grins as he leans over and pulls the sheet off Nate's lap. "Guys that call me daddy, apparently."


End file.
